


Into the Wilderness

by Melanie_Athene



Series: To Err Is Human [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, Humor, M/M, Post Season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-04
Updated: 2011-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A-hunting we will go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Wilderness

Castiel swiped a corner of a towel across the fogged up bathroom mirror, leaving the glass streaked with beads of condensation but still clear enough for him to see his reflection. Then, just as he had been instructed, he lathered up his face and slowly began to wield a safety razor, the first few awkward strokes quickly settling into a rhythmic scrape of blade against thick stubble. Pleased with his progress, Castiel allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. He was definitely getting better at this supposedly simple task. Soon, he would be every bit as proficient at it as was Dean or Sam. In the meantime... practice made perfect. And if he clumsily happened to nick his skin every now and then, well, it was highly unlikely he would bleed to death. Not from so trivial an injury.

As if jinxed by the thought, Castiel winced as he misjudged the tilt of the blade and a bright red blossom of blood spread through the white cloud of foam covering his jaw. Gritting his teeth, brow furrowed in renewed concentration, he adjusted his grasp on the razor and tried again. Several relatively painless minutes later, he was done.

Sighing slightly, he blotted his face dry with the towel and assessed the damage. Only four cuts this morning. Carefully, he dotted his face with four tiny pieces of toilet paper. The little trick Dean had taught him seemed to be very effective, though it left him feeling rather foolish. But a minor loss of dignity was a small price to pay if it prevented the look of quiet desperation that always crossed Dean's face whenever Castiel's stubble approached anything close to beard length. He didn't understand this illogical reaction. It was only hair. Left to his own devices, he would gladly have let his beard grow. But if his shaving somehow eased Dean's mind, he would equally gladly shave. It was a small enough sacrifice of his time. And, truth be told, he rather enjoyed the approving glance Dean always cast his way whenever he appeared clean shaven.

 _What does he see when he looks at me?_ Castiel wondered, not for the first time. _The man that I am becoming... or the angel that I used to be?_

Silently, he stared at his reflection, trying to read anything in the sombre blue eyes that looked back at him beyond the obvious confusion that so often plagued him.

 _How can I know what he thinks when I do not know what to think of myself?_ he mused. _That he thinks of me at all will have to be enough..._

Castiel's gaze slowly travelled down the mirror to the anti-possession tattoo which adorned his breast. It was healing nicely. A few more days and he should no longer need to anoint it, though Dean had been most emphatic about the need to keep it moisturized. Castiel sighed again, and gingerly applied a light layer of lotion. A more liberal application of deodorant and aftershave and a vain attempt to tame his unruly hair concluded his morning ritual. Caring for a human body was a lot of work. He had thought eating and sleeping would be the only maintenance necessary. Clearly he had been wrong, it was one humiliating demand after another...

“Cas?” A sharp knock accompanied the name. “Cas? You fall asleep in there? I have to use the can.”

“I'll be out in a minute, Dean,” Castiel replied. Quickly, he flushed the toilet, washed his hands and knotted a towel around his waist before opening the door and stepping out into the hallway.

In the brief moment when they stood face to face, Dean's glance skittered from Castiel's chin to his chest, down to the precariously hanging towel and back up to his eyes before he pushed past, his shoulder lightly brushing against Castiel's. “You better have left me some hot water this time,” he grumbled.

The door slammed shut behind him.

“Good morning to you, too, Dean,” Castiel muttered. Slipping into Dean's bedroom and helping himself to one of Dean's T-shirts, he quickly pulled on the rest of his own clothes and padded down the stairs in search of breakfast.

 

~*~

 

Sam was already seated at the kitchen table when Castiel entered the room, his nose buried in the morning paper, the remnants of his breakfast shoved aside to give him more elbow room. “Mornin', Dean,” he mumbled.

Castiel turned to look at the hunter in concerned surprise, his hand frozen in mid-reach for the coffee pot. “Good morning, Sam,” he greeted cautiously. “But I am not Dean.”

“W-what?” Sam's head shot up and a slow smile spread across his face as he realized the cause of his mistake. “Oh... Good morning, Cas.”

Castiel appeared relieved at being correctly identified though, judging from the angle of his head tilt, he had not yet worked out the reason for either Sam's earlier confusion or his present amusement.

“You smell like Dean,” Sam said as if that explained everything.

“And that is a bad thing?” Castiel asked seriously. “I find your brother's scent to be most pleasing. I was unaware that you find it distasteful.”

“No, no, Cas,” Sam laughed. “It's just that you've used his soap and aftershave. And I caught a glimpse of his T-shirt out of the corner of my eye, so I jumped to the conclusion that Dean had just entered the room.” Sam's amusement faded. “As a hunter, I should know better than to make assumptions like that. Maybe... Maybe I'm not...” he faltered into silence.

“Are you all right, Sam?”

“Hmm? Yeah, I'm fine. But...” He shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder if I've lost my edge. I can't afford to do that. Not in this business.”

“You are in a familiar place, protected by wards of every kind. I think you can allow yourself to let your guard down here,” Castiel offered in a soothing tone. A sudden frown creased his forehead. “Unless you feel that I still pose a danger...”

“No. Maybe. I'm sorry, Cas, I know you're really trying to redeem yourself. It's just... it's not easy putting it all behind me.”

“I understand. And I am sorry, Sam. If I could, you know that I would snap my fingers and make everything all better.”

“I think I've seen enough finger snapping to last me a lifetime,” Sam said wryly.

“Of course,” Castiel said, his eyes dropping to the floor and a touch of pink sweeping across his cheeks. “I'm sorr – ”

“I've heard enough I'm sorrys too,” Sam interrupted gently. “I'm okay, Cas. I still have a few things to work out... but it's me doing the fixing, not some supernatural being slapping a band-aid on me. That means any progress I make is real. And that's more than okay with me.”

“Oh...” Castiel said weakly. “That is... very forgiving of you, Sam.”

“Hey, it's not like I'm the only injured party here. Let's not forget I tried my best to kill you.”

“You were trying to save your brother. I can only commend your action. There is nothing to forgive.”

“Any threat to Dean deserves no show of mercy?” Sam said carefully.

“Yes,” Cas answered without hesitation. “ _Any_ threat... including myself. If I should prove to be other than what I think I am... if there is some lingering taint inside me that suddenly poses a danger... I beg you, Sam. Do not hesitate. Destroy me.”

“Cas...”

“Promise me, Sam. Promise you will keep Dean safe at any cost.”

“I promise,” Sam whispered.

“Good,” Castiel said, nodding his approval as he filled a bowl with milk and cereal and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“You do know that Dean will never forgive me if I carry out that promise?”

“He will always forgive you, Sam. You are his brother.” Castiel pulled out a chair and seated himself at the table, all his attention given over to not spilling his breakfast as he brought the spoon to his mouth.

 _But I'm not the guy who thinks he smells good,_ Sam thought, before slowly turning his eyes back to his paper.

 

~*~

 

“Morning, Sammy!” Dean carolled, barreling into the silent room and making Sam wonder how on earth he had ever mistaken Castiel for this rambunctious creature. A rough hand ruffled Sam's hair before snatching half the newspaper from his grasp. A broad grin met Sam's glare, and Dean tucked the paper under his arm before quickly backing away from his long-armed brother's reach.

Those few quick steps carried Dean to Castiel's side of the table. Again his hand swept out, this time snagging Castiel's coffee mug. Dean took a few quick gulps and made a face. “You use too much sugar,” he complained.

“My apologies, Dean. I was unaware I was preparing _my_ coffee to _your_ liking. Shall I fix a cup that's more to your taste?”

“Nah, I'll get it.” Dean set the mug back on the table, and smirked at Castiel. “You missed a bit,” he said, tapping his own face to indicate the location.

“A bit of what?” Castiel said.

“Toilet paper,” Dean grinned.

Castiel's hand brushed at his face ineffectively.

“No, not there. There. No... here. Oh for heaven's sake!” Dean licked his thumb and gently scrubbed it against Castiel's chin. “There you go,” he said, strolling off towards the coffee pot.

“You should have said something,” Castiel said, turning a stern gaze on Sam.

“I didn't notice,” Sam replied honestly. _And I certainly wouldn't have licked it off your face if I had,_ he chortled to himself.

 

~*~

 

“So.... where's Bobby?” Dean said a few minutes later, plopping himself in the chair next to Castiel, his elbow grazing against Castiel's arm each time he reached for his coffee mug or shovelled a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

“In town,” Sam replied. “He grumbled something about the three of us eating him out of house and home.”

“He has a point,” Dean said, chewing noisily. “It's going on four weeks. We don't usually hang around that long. Maybe it's time we moved on.”

“You mean return to hunting?” Sam said uncertainly.

“Why not? Cas' training is coming along nicely. He's a pretty good shot now – he just needs to work on reloading the gun a little faster. No one can beat him at reciting an exorcism or whipping off a handy translation. His sword play is better than mine, and he can knock me flat on my back in hand to hand combat if I don't keep a close eye on his tricky ass.”

“My ass is tricky? That is why you watch it?”

“Figure of speech, Cas,” Dean said patting him lightly on the thigh. “Figure of speech.”

Sam snorted.

“Whaddya say?” Dean coaxed. “We can start out small. Do a few day trips or overnighters and see how it goes. There's only so much we can teach him here. There's nothing like first hand field experience. Besides, it could be fun. Right, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel said eagerly.

“A change of scene might be nice,” Sam agreed.

“Then it's settled. Find us a hunt, Sam.”

Sam loped out of the kitchen in search of his computer.

“Wash or dry?” Dean bumped his shoulder against Castiel's and nodded towards the dishes.

“Wash,” Castiel said decisively, bumping him back.

By the time Sam returned, a list of prospective hunts in hand, the dishes were mostly clean. The kitchen floor, on the other hand, definitely needed mopping thanks to Castiel flicking blobs of soapy water at Dean in retaliation for Dean's repeated snapping of the dish towel on his backside.

 

~*~

 

It didn't take long for them to settle on a hunt. When Dean saw the way Castiel's face lit up as he silently mouthed the word 'Faith', he immediately cast his vote in favour of heading to Faith, South Dakota. Castiel asked for so little now that he was human. How could Dean deny him this? Besides, Faith met all the criteria for being a suitable destination. It wasn't all that far away: a mere four hundred twenty-eight miles, a good portion of that clear sailing on the I-90. A five or six hour drive in total, if all went well. Just long enough to get his baby's motor running. And, added bonus, it was a simple salt and burn. An old cowboy's ghost was taking exception to people tearing down his ramshackle house to make way for a dude ranch. So... find the grave, dig up the bones... bada bing, bada boom. They'd be belly up to the bar at the local saloon before you could say 'yeehaw!'

It sounded like a perfect plan.

Dean should have known perfect didn't much figure in a Winchester's life.

Trouble started before they finished loading up the car.

Sam leaned into the backseat and pulled out Castiel's trench coat, dangling it between two crooked fingers. “What should I do with this?” he said, nose wrinkling at the blood stains and dirt encrusting the garment.

Castiel froze like a deer trapped in headlights, eyes widening with trepidation at this physical manifestation of his past sins.

“Throw it in the trash,” Bobby recommended.

“No!” Dean said. “I want – Cas wants to keep it, don't you, Cas?”

“I – I – ” Castiel floundered.

“He has better sense than that,” Bobby snorted. “Why the hell would he want to keep that dirty old thing?”

“Because...” Dean trailed off helplessly. _Because I don't want to let it go. Because it's a part of him. Because every time I thought I couldn't go on, I'd catch a glimpse of that damned coat and I'd know everything was going to be okay..._

“Because?” Sam said impatiently.

“Because I said so,” Dean snapped, grabbing the coat out of his brother's hands and wadding it up into a ball. “I'll just toss it in the trunk until we can get it cleaned.”

“If it can be cleaned...” Sam frowned. “Those stains have really set, Dean.”

“It can be cleaned,” Dean said stubbornly. “Cas can zap it when he gets his wings.”

“If he gets his wings.”

“When, Sam. When he gets 'em.” Dean shoved the trench coat as far to the back of the trunk as it would go and terminated the discussion with a fierce slam of the lid.

“Call shotgun,” he murmured angrily to a somewhat dazed looking Castiel.

“Shotgun?” Castiel inquired.

“You got it,” Dean nodded. “You ride in the back, Sam.”

“Oh, come on, Dean. That isn't fair. He doesn't even know what shotgun means.”

“He still called it,” Dean snapped.

“There's no leg room back there.”

“I don't mind sitting in the backseat, Dean.”

“Will you two shut the fuck up and get in the car!” Dean bellowed.

“Oh, yeah,” Bobby muttered. “Fun times ahead. You sure a couple of days is all you idjits need for this job? I don't mind if it takes longer.”

 

~*~

 

Sam sulked for a solid hour, bitch face number seven ('my brother kicks puppies') filling the rear view mirror each time Dean cast a glance his way. Castiel rode in silence too, his eyes firmly on the road as the miles stole past, his face impassive even though Dean had cranked his music up way past the comfortable level for such an enclosed space as the Impala.

As they entered into the second hour, Sam pulled out his laptop and began to study the information he had downloaded before they left. Castiel's head bobbed a few times before he leaned it against the side window and closed his eyes. Within minutes, his breathing had evened out and he was fast asleep. Dean lowered the volume to a pleasant background murmur, his hand brushing against Castiel's arm as he moved it from the dial to the steering wheel. Castiel sighed and slipped deeper into slumber, his eyes flickering back and forth under his closed eyelids.

“It says here, that Franklin Palmerson had quite the spread at one time,” Sam offered quietly. “Twelve hundred head of cattle, four thousand acres. Nice house, a pretty wife, four kids, all sons. He lost it all to the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. Three of his sons died from tuberculosis. His wife mysteriously disappeared in 1935. The bank foreclosed on the farm a year later. Palmerson died in 1943, shortly after receiving word that his only remaining son had been killed in battle. Possible suicide, but it was never proven.”

“That's quite the run of bad luck.” Dean whistled softly. “No wonder ol' Frank doesn't much care for a bunch of rich dudes tromping around on his broken dreams.”

“Yeah...” Sam said distractedly, and frowned.

“Problem?” Dean said, picking up on his brother's unease.

“Maybe... The land's passed from hand to hand several times, just used for pasture. The house has been left to rot since 1936, it was in pretty rough shape by then. Bar None Co-op bought the property two years ago, and construction's been moving along just fine, not a single glitch. The new ranch house and outbuildings are completed... caretakers have been living there for several weeks now. No one reported anything strange. Then, the very morning a bulldozer touched the old house, all hell broke loose. Cattle stampeded – two men were seriously injured. A fire broke out in the cookhouse. Anything that wasn't tied down started flying around as if a twister hit. The man driving the bulldozer suffered a fatal heart attack...”

“Sounds to me like Frank woke up grumpy. Textbook classic example of an angry spirit.”

“Yeah...” Sam agreed.

“But?”

“The timing seems off to me.”

“Huh...”

“Just a feeling,” Sam muttered defensively.

“Hunter's instincts. Don't knock 'em,” Dean said. “Okay, Sam, we'll check out the house as well as salt and burn Frank.”

“Burns!” Castiel yelled, bolting upright and startling Dean so badly that the car swerved over the centre line before he brought it back under control. “It burns! It burns!” His hands beat at his clothing as if invisible flames licked at his skin.

Dean slammed on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel to the right, sending the car to a screeching halt on the shoulder of the road.

“Cas!” he cried, trying to capture the wildly flailing hands before Castiel could seriously injure either himself or Dean. “Cas, wake up! You're dreaming, man.”

“Holy oil,” Castiel whimpered, blue eyes open, but obviously unaware of anything but the horror of the dream. “It burns and I can't push through it. I can't get to Dean.”

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam said.

“Lucifer...” Castiel's voice cracked on the name. “He's drawn a circle around me. He's going to kill Dean. And I can't get though the fire. I can't. I can't.”

“Cas!” Dean drew the trembling man into an awkward one-armed hug. “Lucifer's in the Cage. I'm right here. I'm okay. We're both okay. Stay with me, Cas.”

“No oil? No fire?”

“No oil. No fire.”

“Dean?”

“Yes.”

“Dean...” A shuddering sigh shook Castiel as his eyes focused and he became aware of his surroundings: the concern in Dean's green eyes as he peered intently at his face; the satisfying weight of Dean's arm across his shoulders; a worried Sam looming over them both, ready to lend support but not quite knowing where to begin. “It was just a dream?” he whispered.

“Yeah. A nightmare.”

“It isn't night,” Castiel said shakily. “I thought it would be safe to sleep.”

“You've been having bad dreams?”

“A few. None this severe. I try not to sleep too long or too deeply. It helps keep the dreams away.”

“You can't run on a few hours sleep each night,” Dean gently chided.

“You do,” Castiel countered.

“Yeah... well... That's just me.”

“Dreams torment you too.” It was not a question. Castiel knew all too well the visions that plagued Dean's slumber.

“It's just the way things are,” Dean murmured. “I can't remember the last good night's sleep I had.”

It was a lie. Dean knew it the moment the words left his lips. He remembered all too well. He remembered the tender warmth wrapped around him, Castiel's body cradling him, warding off the demons of his past...

Self-consciously, he drew his arm away, placing both hands firmly on the steering wheel, ignoring the little sway into vacated space Castiel inadvertently made as the contact was withdrawn.

Sam settled back in place and picked up his abandoned laptop.

Dean sighed and fluidly pulled the car back into the flow of traffic, doing his best to ignore the unblinking stare Castiel turned upon him.

 _Does he remember too?_ he wondered, fidgeting with the dial until loud music once again filled the heavy silence which had fallen upon them. _Does he know how often I think about that night?_

 

~*~

 

It was early afternoon when they rolled into town, the big wrought iron sign proclaiming 'Welcome to Faith, est. 1910' standing stark against the endless prairie sky. 'Home Town of Sue, T-rex Capital of the World,' a smaller wooden sign declared. Dean flashed a grin Castiel's way. “Admit it, Cas,” he said. “You have a thing for dinosaurs. That's really why we're here.”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel said dryly. “I lust after their bones. I miss the thrill of watching them endlessly lumber around the primordial forest.”

“Whoa,” Sam said softly. “Dinosaurs? Really, Cas? That's awesome.”

“Maybe we can go visit some of his old girlfriends at the museum later,” Dean teased. “Right now, I say we talk to a few people, and check out the lay of the land. How secure is the construction site?”

“They closed it down and cleared everybody out until an insurance investigator can perform an inspection,” Sam said.

“Well, isn't this their lucky day,” Dean drawled. “We just happen to be insurance investigators.”

“All three of us?” Sam raised a questioning brow.

“I guess not,” Dean replied. “Just the two of us who still have decent suits to wear. Sorry, Cas. You're going to have to sit this one out.”

“You're turning him loose on the town? Alone?”

“He won't hurt anybody!”

“I was actually more concerned about what they might do to him.” Sam grinned. “He's not exactly your average tourist.”

“Huh, you have a point...” Dean gave the matter careful thought. “Okay... How's this? You go play insurance investigator. Cas and I will snoop around town, check out the library and church records, and see if we can find out where Palmerson is buried. I'll book a room at the Branding Iron Inn and we can meet up there in a few hours, compare notes and come up with a plan for tonight.”

“Right.” Sam nodded. “I'll phone you when I'm done.”

 

~*~

 

It didn't take long to get the information they needed, so it was inevitable that Dean's mind turned to thoughts of his empty stomach as the clock neared 4:00 pm. Unfortunately, Sam had the car, there was no diner or fast food joint in this small, backwaters town and the motel's modest restaurant was closed until 6:00 pm. Dean couldn't wait that long to rustle up some grub. So he and Cas wandered aimlessly up and down Faith's streets, taking in the sights and enjoying the sunny August day until they chanced upon a place called M & D Food Shop. There they bought some dry-looking prepackaged sandwiches, a six-pack, several chocolate bars and a big bag of potato chips. They were seated side by side on one of the beds back at the motel, watching TV and munching happily on the chips, when Sam walked in the door, sweating heavily in his suit and pulling at his tie.

“How was your day, dear?” Dean said sweetly.

Sam threw the tie in his face. “I hate cows,” he said. “Big, stupid, smelly cows. They're everywhere. Like a plague of locusts. Stomping on your feet, dropping stinky piles for you to step in. Big, sad eyes staring at you, judging you, and...”

Big, sad blue eyes stared at Sam reproachfully.

“What? Oh, fine, Cas. I don't hate cows. They're one of God's most beautiful creations. Happy now?”

Castiel blinked and offered Sam a can of beer.

“So?” Dean said impatiently, clicking off the TV. “What's the story?”

“The EMF reading was off the chart,” Sam said, stripping down to his undershirt and dress pants. He settled himself on the other bed, kicking off his shoes as he pulled the tab and gratefully took a deep swallow of cold beer. “There's definitely something there worth checking out. How'd you guys do?”

“Palmerson's buried in St. Joseph Cemetery, a couple of miles west of Faith, just off Route 212.”

“That's on the way to the ranch.”

“So, we salt and burn Frank, then check out the house?” Dean said. “Sun sets today at 7:50 pm. Sunrise tomorrow's at 6:02. That gives us plenty of time.”

“I hope you saved me something to eat,” Sam said, looking at the stack of empty wrappers on the nightstand.

“Don't I always?” Dean said, tossing him a pastrami on rye.

“Where's my usual ham and cheese?” Sam grumbled.

“Cas ate it. He doesn't like pastrami.”

“Hey!” Sam said indignantly. “There's a bite taken out of this sandwich!”

 

~*~

 

The Palmerson's family plot was fortunately at the rear of the cemetery, in an older, seldom visited and poorly tended section. It took the better part of two hours to excavate the grave, the three men taking it in turns to dig or stand watch. Not a flicker of activity registered on the EMF meter the entire time.

Franklin looked much as one would expect a sixty-eight year old corpse to look. Sam sprinkled salt and gasoline over the coffin, Dean set the body on fire and Castiel stood, head bowed, mouthing the words of a prayer.

As the flames died, Dean's eyes met Sam's across the smouldering grave. “That was easy,” he said.

“Too easy,” Sam replied. “I think we have the wrong man.”

Dean nodded. “Let's fill it back in and check out the house. If Frank was the ghost, it should be clean now.”

“And if he wasn't, we're back to square one.” Sam sighed. “Who else would care enough about that shack to haunt it?”

“Could be one of his sons,” Dean said, beginning to shovel dirt back into the grave.

“Or the wife,” Castiel suggested, grabbing a second shovel and assisting Dean.

“She left town,” Sam said. “Probably ran off to the big city to start a new life.”

“The records never said precisely how or why she vanished,” Castiel pointed out.

“He's right, Sam. It's possible Frank snapped and killed her. Being murdered is enough to piss anyone off.”

“Could be a real challenge finding her bones,” Sam muttered.

“She's in the house,” Castiel said, certainty in his voice. “It is her home and she is naturally possessive of it.”

“It's as good a place as any to start,” Dean said, patting a final shovelful of soil into place.

 

~*~

 

The EMF went crazy the minute they stepped out of the car. Sam swivelled the meter back and forth, trying to pinpoint the source of the reading.

“In there,” he said finally, pointing to the house.

Dean nobly refrained from saying 'I told you so' on Castiel's behalf. Instead, he unloaded a couple of shovels from the Impala's trunk, passing them over to Castiel's waiting hand. Sam shouldered a bag of salt. Dean carried the can of gas, sloshing the liquid from side to side to evaluate how much remained. Hopefully there would be enough if they had need of it. Armed with shotguns loaded with rounds of salt, and carrying heavy duty flashlights, the three men slowly approached what remained of the old Palmerson residence.

Dean warily eyed the bulldozer still embedded in splintered wood. “Heart attack, huh?” he said. “The force is strong in this one, young Skywalker. Mind what you have learned.”

Treading gingerly on spongy boards, avoiding the places where the wood had rotted though entirely, they carefully climbed the stairs and crossed the sagging porch. The front door opened with a banshee screech of rusted hinges.

“So much for the silent approach,” Dean murmured.

“It will go faster if we split up,” Sam suggested.

Dean nodded reluctantly. “I'll look around upstairs. Cas, you check out this level. Sam...”

“I know, I know. Take the basement. Why do I always get the basement?”

“Hey, you already reek of cow poop. What's a little mildew and cellar dust compared to that?”

Stashing the shovels, gas and salt in the entryway, the three men began their search.

 

~*~

 

Dean moved quickly but efficiently from room to room, finding nothing of interest in the dusty, cobwebbed corners and shadowy reaches. He was just about to head back to the staircase when a shotgun blast sounded from the floor below. Heart pounding in his chest, Dean sprinted down the stairs, vaulting over the rail as he neared the final few steps. He cast his gaze back and forth, uncertain which way to turn, until a second shot echoed from the next room over, followed by a resounding crash and a muffled cry of pain from Castiel.

Dean tore down the hall and burst into the heart of any country home: the kitchen. The instant temperature drop as he passed through the doorway confirmed a spirit's presence, but where the hell was Castiel? The narrow beam of Dean's flashlight arced wildly around the room, illuminating peeling wallpaper and the vapour cloud of his own breath.

“Cas!” he called.

An answering, ragged gasp sounded off to his left. Dean directed a beam of light downward towards the source of the sound and there, laid flat out on the floor, a desperate Castiel was attempting to hold a writhing ghost at bay.

Mrs. Palmerson had been a beautiful woman once upon a time. Horrendous best described her now. Her face sagged under the weight of its remaining flesh, and her body was gaunt to the point of being skeletal. Vivid hand prints encircled her slender neck, suggesting strangulation had been the cause of her demise. Her phosphorescent eyes showed little trace of sanity, and nothing at all of humanity. She was a feral, malignant creature. Pure energy devoted to a single cause: defence of her home.

“Hey!” Dean shouted, hoping to draw attention to himself, unable to open fire because of the spirit's close proximity to Castiel. “You, there. Bitch!”

The ghost's head lifted and turned for a brief moment, but she made no move to leave her victim. It was more than enough of an opportunity for Dean, however. His gun cracked once and Mrs. Palmerson vanished with a harpy's shriek of utter fury.

“Cas, are you okay?” Dean swiftly crossed the room, eager to get the ex-angel back on his feet before the ghost inevitably rematerialized.

“I am fine,” Castiel said, coughing slightly.

Dean turned the flashlight on Castiel's face. Deep fingernail gouges scored his forehead and cheeks, and angry purple bruises formed a ring around his throat.

“Dude, you got beat up by a girl!”

Castiel shot the hunter an annoyed look as he retrieved his dropped gun and flashlight and scrambled to his feet. “She is fast,” he said, finally. “And preternaturally strong... like I used to be.”

“We'll just have to outsmart her, then,” Dean said. A gentle hand reached out to intercept the trickle of blood that was heading for Castiel's eye. Absentmindedly, he wiped his fingers on his shirt and returned his hand to Castiel's face, turning it this way and that to better inspect the damage, the touch lingering long after the inspection was done.

“Dean? Cas?” Sam hollered, pounding his way up the cellar stairs.

Dean startled back from Castiel, instantly snapping into full hunter mode: eyes sweeping from left to right, shotgun at the ready.

“Here, Sam!” he replied.

“I found a grave,” Sam panted. “It's in the root cellar. We need the shovels and – ”

A howl of outrage interrupted his words as the ghost once again launched herself at Castiel. Dean's quick shot disintegrated the amorphous being before it could lay a bony finger on him. “What the hell?” he said. “Why does she have the hots for you?”

“Perhaps it is because I am – I was – an angel. Something within her must recognize my otherness, and know it for the danger it poses to her continued existence.”

“Huh,” Dean said. “That must be it.”

“Or maybe she just likes blue eyes,” Castiel continued thoughtfully. “I have been told mine are an exceptional shade of blue.”

“Who the fuck told you that?” Dean demanded.

“Guys...” Sam interrupted. “Can you have that conversation later? We have a job to do.”

 

~*~

 

Despite its shallowness, digging up the grave was not an easy task. Time after time, all of the spirit's pent up wrath and power was focused upon Castiel. After the fourth vicious attack, Sam and Dean gave up on digging and handed the shovel over to Castiel. As he quickly laboured to uncover the body, the two hunters stood guard, firing off shot after shot to keep him safe from the persistent ghostly menace.

Finally, the woman's corpse was revealed. As Castiel spread salt and gasoline over the remains, Mrs. Palmerson put in a final appearance, her arms stretched out towards Castiel as if to lure him back with her to the netherworld. Castiel swiftly set the grave ablaze. With a final, ear-splitting shriek of despair, the ghost faded and was gone.

“That was fun,” Sam said.

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean and Castiel chorused.

 

~*~

 

It was a little after 3:00 am when the Impala rumbled back into the Branding Iron Inn's parking lot.

Sam tumbled into bed without bothering to remove his clothes, leaving Castiel and Dean to stand and stare at each other across the narrow span of the remaining bed.

Dean gave a little shrug and pulled back the covers on his side. Toeing off his boots he crawled in and patted the empty half of the bed invitingly. “Kill the lights, would you, Cas?” he said casually, and yawned.

After a brief hesitation, Castiel hastened to comply. The dull thud of his shoes hitting the floor was curiously loud in the silence of the darkened room. Dean felt the mattress dip as, with a little rustle of sheets, Castiel settled himself beneath the covers. And there they lay, each man flat on his back, open eyes staring up at the ceiling, their bodies carefully perched on opposite edges of the bed like two frightened virgins – though Dean was pretty sure only one of them qualified for that status.

“What the hell,” Dean murmured, sudden laughter bubbling up in his breast at the ridiculousness of the situation. He rolled and faced his bedmate, his arm reaching out until his hand rested warm and heavy on Castiel's chest. “Oh, God,” he whispered, very deliberately.

Castiel turned to face him, his hand blindly seeking the mark on Dean's shoulder as he inched himself closer to his lodestone, gratefully accepting the offer of forgiveness.

“Oh, God!” Sam exclaimed disgustedly, pulling a pillow over his head. “Can you guys keep that damned glow down to a glimmer? I'm trying to sleep here.”


End file.
